


promises broken; unbroken

by mysteriousnight



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coming to term with emotions, M/M, Post-Canon, Postcards, Repression, but you do have to sit through 35K of just BJ and Peg in California first, please trust me this is a beejhawk story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:13:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29853069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysteriousnight/pseuds/mysteriousnight
Summary: BJ comes home, but he doesn't know what that means anymore. The war has left him changed and he's learning that he can't just seamlessly slip back into that perfect little life in Mill Valley. But change can be good, and Peg is determined to help BJ realized that, slowly but surely.
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt & Peg Hunnicutt, B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, B. J. Hunnicutt/Peg Hunnicutt
Kudos: 5





	promises broken; unbroken

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not lying when i say Hawkeye does not show up in this story until 35k words in. i'm really sorry about that; it wasn't meant to be like that, but it ended up that way. i just want to warn everyone now  
> i also want to thank my friend soph who helped me work out a handful of scenes in this story and is just always there to listen to me talk about my writing. you're a real one; i wouldn't be posting this without you
> 
> anyways, as always thanks for reading and i hope you enjoy it <3

No air has ever tasted as sweet as when BJ arrives in San Francisco, filling his lungs with the sickly sweet understanding that he is back home, an almost nauseating sensation that something is over, ended, ceased, killed. When his two feet stand on solid ground the definite fact that he is home, he is safe, he has survived, hits him all at once, and he thinks his knees might give out, send him crashing to the ground right there in the middle of the airport, crying tears of joy just to be home again. 

Against all thought, his legs hold him and he can still walk forward, his body reminding him that this shouldn’t be as big a revelation as it is. Of course he has made it back, of course he is home, of course he is in California. Where else could he ever go that would feel like home?

(He knows the answer to that question, an answer that sits buried inside him. It hurts and pulls at his heart, but he ignores it as he always does, always tries to do. He is home. That is that.)

The airport is large, and he doesn’t remember it being this big, like he’s about to get lost if he takes one step out of place, like if he strays from this path then he’ll be back in Korea, this whole place a fantasy. He knows where Peg is waiting for him and it’s taking everything in him to not sprint there, to not just drop his bag behind him and run to her like he has been dreaming of since he left this very place. He doesn't; he just follows the signs towards the exit at a steady pace, like he is any man arriving in California and not someone dressed in all green who hasn't seen this place in years.

BJ follows the signs like an unstoppable force, like waves crashing steadily against a shore, one after the other, each foot in front of the other, on and on and on, until he’s stopping in place, unable to move. There’s a shop in the airport selling postcards of San Francisco and when his eyes catch on them, all that is moving him forward stops and he is left with an aching beat of his heart and the feeling that he is going to pass out.

It is not like these postcards are reminding him where he is; BJ knows he is in San Francisco; California; Home; the place he lives with his wife and daughter; the place he never should have left for a war that was pointless as any war that came before and as pointless and any war that will surely follow. He is aware of where he is, his physical location on this earth, but to be home means so much more than to just be in California. It means he’s with Peg, and Erin, and once again back to the life he left, but it means, too, that there are thousands of miles separating Hawkeye from him, thousands of miles spanning the gap between their two bodies, a distance that has never been this large before, and a distance BJ is terrified will always be this large.

And it’s like these bright colors of the postcards are screaming at him the exact number of miles between here and Maine and BJ can’t hear anything else except that number. They’re taunting him, sending him down to a hell that he is certain he will never escape from, tortured by his thoughts, plagued by this distance.

_ Hawkeye _ . Thinking the name makes his stomach twist, as if he swallowed glass and all the pieces are coming together to form a new heart inside him, one so fragile and delicate even a single breath will shatter it. Somewhere between Korea and here, he was able to silence that part of him that was still left holding onto Hawkeye, still replaying their last moments together, the last words they said to each other. But now it’s back at full volume, a deafening ache of missing him. BJ doesn’t know how it's possible that he’s still standing here, because it feels like he should be dying, or at the very least on his knees, sinking to the ground and never coming up because how can one person hurt this much? How can one person feel so much pain about another?

He thought he knew what missing someone felt like; he spent the whole time in Korea missing Peg and Erin, but this agony that is filling him is so much different from anything he has felt before. He is well accustomed to missing someone, to homesickness, to the pure anger in not being where he wants to be, but back in Korea he could hold onto that homesickness, that anger, that tightness in his chest when he thought about Peg. He could hold onto those feelings and keep himself afloat, keep the war from drowning him in its misery. To miss during a war means to have something to go back to; to miss something, someone, in that bloodstained space is a righteous act, keeping you holy and clean.

But missing someone has no place in peace. This terrible ache within him seems misplaced, undeserving, cannibalistic. He is back home, so why is this pain eating through him, devouring his heart, his lungs, every part of him that wants and misses and wishes to be back with Hawkeye.

He walks away from the store with a stack of postcards and an ache like a rock sending him sinking. He takes a step forward and it feels like he is dragging an anchor behind him, thousands of tons weighing him down, trying to pull him backwards, creating a wound on the earth behind him, a wound in him. Large and gushing and a pain like no other, but the world continues to move around him, just as always, not realizing the agony he is in, the destruction that is being wrecked upon him from a memory of a man he might never see again. 

BJ forces himself forward, to continue moving, to continue along just like everyone else.

By the time he finds Peg, the crushing weight of longing has lifted, the feeling quietly buried away just as every thought like that is. It is easier this way, safer to ignore than to dwell, to try to understand why he feels this way, this intensely. He has a wife, so why should he miss someone so strongly it feels like he might break in two? He has a life here, so why does he want to turn around and fly to Maine right this very second? He isn’t in Korea anymore, so why does he still feel so close to Hawkeye, that it is breaking his heart to be without him, that he can almost feel a physical absence without Hawkeye at his side? Those feelings should have been left in Korea, a symptom of the war, their closeness explained only by the threat of death at their doorstep and the horrible loneliness of being in that place. But to feel them now, to feel them sit inside him like an unwanted friend, it doesn't make sense to BJ. These feelings don’t fit into the life he is supposed to be going back to.

When he sees Peg, it is like he can finally exhale, like for two years he has been choking on homesickness: sick and eager and burning through him. He sees Peg and he thinks he’s going to cry at the sight, can feel something well up in his chest, tight and hard, like a fist sitting there, ready to swing, but nothing comes. He feels the tightness stay there, settling in him, finding a home once again lodged between his lungs, over his heart.

And he remembers this feeling, knows it well. Being away for so long, it left him, replaced by something stronger in Korea, but now this feeling has taken root once again, reminding, reassuring, choking: that he is here to be a husband, to love Peg, to have a white picket fence and a child and a happy, loving family.

Peg sees him and her hands go to her face, covering her mouth as she stands in place, not running to meet him, not throwing his arms around his neck and kissing him, but just standing there like to see him has taken everything out of her, like seeing him has cut off all the air to her lungs and she is going to collapse any second. BJ can see the tears in her eyes from here, shining in the bright lights of the airport, and still, with her tears and locked legs and BJ’s body feeling oh so big in a place like this, no one is stopping to pay any attention to the two of them. BJ wants to scream, to make someone look over and witness their reunion. Because that is what this is: a man and a woman finding each other again, seeing their bodies in perfect image not twenty feet away, a heavy weight of time and distance disappearing as their eyes find each other. It should be magical, noteworthy, watched by all, but no one is watching and that must mean something is wrong.

BJ feels dirty, staring at Peg like this, no tears in his eyes and his clothes are too worn and too green and too much like what he has come from. BJ is tired, oh so tired, like everything that is expected of him is dropping right back on his shoulders, and maybe he  _ is  _ going to scream, not to get someone to look at them, but because he is realizing that this feeling of exhaustion is something he knows well and has never wanted to know again. He wants to bite the heads off kings, rip and spray that blood of the supposed righteous and ask what is it all for. What has all the suffering he has seen been for? And what is it worth to just feel okay again? Is okay something you can even go back to when you know what blood looks like buried under dirt and under fingernails and how a bomb smells in the rain: like a lightning strike that is washed with death, a purity of destruction.

And then Peg is in front of him and his exhaustion is still there, but he can still smile and pretend everything is alright, because everything should be alright. He is home and he has Peg and nothing should be stopping him from dropping all that he is carrying and wrapping his arms around that body he has missed for so long. But BJ can't seem to let go of the paper bag that is heavy with postcards, his hand clutching it tightly, as if that is his one lifeline to healing. And he can’t move his arms or his legs so he just has to watch Peg in front of him going through a revelation that he is real and in front of her again;, looking at him like he is her salvation; like he is Jesus Christ and he has come to raise her to the heavenly land she so long desired. She is looking at him and it is breaking his heart that he can't even touch her.

She touches him and it’s like fire. BJ almost pulls away when she lays a hand on his arm, but he still can't move so that fire burns at his skin, an agony that mixes with all the others he has known. Her hand moves and now it’s on his shoulder, her fingers are so light, barely felt through his shirt. And it should be holy having her touch him, but that steady, fist-like weight between his lungs just grows and hardens and he knows her touch is anything but holy to him.

“Oh, BJ,” Her words are somber, sad, heartbreaking, and BJ wonders what she sees in him. Who she sees in him. Does she see the man she married: young and bright and loving. Or does she see the man who the army took away from her: scared and clean and crying. Or does she see the man who the army had made him become, dragging him away from his careful life and into a war zone: bloody and beaten and in agony.

“Peg,” And it’s like the name has released the hold on his muscles, his arms now moving on their own free will, one on her waist, hand still holding onto the paper bag, the bag between his touch and her body. The other hand goes to her hand, drawing it away from where it was resting on his shoulder. He touches her and the burning flame of her touch is gone, now just a dull pressure of her skin against his.

He isn’t crying but he sees the tears on Peg’s face and wishes this was a mirror, that he was crying and watching himself die in the arms of his love. Because he is dying, something in him rotten and dark shriveling away as Peg cries while he has to just stand there like a stranger, touching her delicately, like she might throw him off her at any moment. Something in him is dying, or maybe he just wishes something is dying and that this isn’t what is always felt like to be home and here and married to a wife he needs to love.

“Let’s go home, Peg,” BJ can’t say anything else because suddenly he just needs to get out of these clothes. He needs to scrub away all sense of the war, every speck of dirt or dust or drop of blood that has ever touched his skin. He needs to be baptismal: clean and pure and forgiven. 

He needs to forget, but he can still smell the place, so dirty and hard and the horrible smell of homemade gin rises for a moment above it all and he thinks he might throw up or start to cry, and he doesn’t know which would be worse. To empty the meager contents of his stomach onto the floor of this airport, or to cry. Because if seeing Peg hasn’t made him cry, why would the smell of something so interwoven with his memory of Hawkeye make him cry? Why should it? If it does, BJ wouldn’t know how to go on, how to look Peg in the eyes and say he is not crying for her, but for someone he has left.

He doesn’t cry, the smell lingers and leaves; the sweet smell of Peg’s perfume coming up, overtaking all his senses as she leans into him and hugs him fiercely, like she isn't afraid of the dirt that coats him or the tired way he is looking at her, like she isn’t afraid of him like he knows she should be. He can't hug her back, his bones suddenly a stranger to his mind. All he can think of is the need to burn the clothes he is wearing and the sour taste of longing that is filling his throat.

Home. They go home. BJ walks into the empty house and doesn’t stop until he’s in their bedroom, dropping his suitcase on the floor at the end of the bed, and he knows Peg is behind him, watching him, waiting in the doorway as if she crosses the threshold then whatever spell he is under will break and he will go back to being locked in place again. He’s thankful for her distance because he doesn’t know if he could take her beside him right now, not when he is finally setting down the postcards he has carried since he bought them and his hands feel so empty without them. He feels like he might split open if anything happens now.

BJ digs through the drawers of his dresser and all his clothes are right where he has left them, like he has never left, like the space he left in his absence has sat untouched, simply waiting patiently for him to come home. He finds a shirt and a pair of pants as quickly as he can and then he is walking past Peg and into the bathroom. The second he shuts the door he feels his lungs tighten and panic set in, choking him with all it has, with every memory and every death and every second he has been away.

When the water starts to pour on him, clothes and all, he can finally take a staggering breath and a sob falls out as he exhales. And then he is sitting on the ground of the shower as the water flows over him and his clothes are wet and sticking to him but he doesn't care because each breath he takes is a sob, the sound like the agony is trying to break out of him, find a home in a bigger body, in a body that can take it all. BJ puts his head in his hands but he keeps his eyes open, looking through the spaces between his fingers, and he looks at his shoes, the black canvas of the shoe just beginning to soak with water. So dirty and dusty and now wet, and all he can focus on is a blood splatter that almost blends in with the black fabric but the red is just too powerful to be overtaken by the black, so the stain is clear that it is blood and not just mud or anything else he has walked through to get here. He can't take his eyes off it until the water finally soaks into the fabric and the red runs away down the drain like all the other muddled colors flowing off him.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, the water turning cold and soaking his bones with an ice he is already used to. The panic subsides eventually, snaking its way back inside, ready to come out again at a moments notice, but it leaves and he is left on the bottom of the shower with nothing more than the wet clothes clinging to him and the hollow breaths resounding underneath the sound of the water, echoing in his head like the loudest thing in the world. 

He is left with nothing more than what he has, so he stands and strips his clothes away and leaves them as a pile on the ground, water leaking out of them, running brown and dirty against the clean tile of the bathroom floor. And now standing under the water, he feels an emptiness enter him so vast and hollow he doesn't know how it can possibly fill him entirely, but it does and he can't do anything about it but take the bar of soap and start to scrub at his skin like there’s an infection there that he needs to get clean, like he wants to strip his skin away and be left fresh and new with something that has never known the conditions he has just come back from.

BJ shuts off the water eventually, time meaning little to him now. There is no danger in standing around anymore, no impending destruction that causes all his motions to be fast and even comfort to be had on the edge of his seat. He grabs a towel and when he brings it up to his face, he has to choke back a sob because the towel is so soft and he has forgotten things could be soft; that there is an opposite to the hard bed he slept on and the thin towels he used and the worn out robe he wore. He breaks the sob before it makes a sound, no more water to drown away any noise he makes. He doesn't want Peg to hear him, hear his soul tortured by memory not yet memory but still sitting right there in the foreground when he closes his eyes or even looks at himself in the mirror.

The mirror. BJ stands in front of it and looks at himself, truly looks at himself. He doesn't know when the last time he was in front of a mirror like this one, so big you can see your whole self; the small mirrors he had to use were just big enough to see your face and nothing more. It’s like staring at a stranger, a man he does not know, a body that is not his, something foreign and strange and shouldn’t be in his home, shouldn't be staring back at him with eyes that are too dark and troubled to be so familiar.

He has to stop himself from punching the mirror, from shattering the image in front of him, like ruining that would get that stranger out of here, like the man who is staring back at him could be banished by one simple punch. His hands shake as he grabs the clothes he brought in with him, clothes he hasn't worn in years, feels like centuries, the fabric strange under his touch, the cloth prickling against his washed skin.

With clothes on, it’s almost like he can hide within himself again, pretending that who he sees in the mirror is himself still, the same man who had worn these clothes two years ago. He feels like an actor, dressing up for his next big part, the clothes just another layer to the lies he lives, another protection against the world. BJ has to turn away before he can't stand it, before he picks back up the soaking wet clothes behind him and drags them back over his body. He turns from the mirror and opens the bathroom door and for one second, for a momentary point as the world seems to close in around him, he feels fine. Utterly fine, like he is just exiting the bathroom as normal, just another day in the house he lives in and hasn't spent a two years absence from. 

And then he takes a step forward and whatever balance he was just in is shifted and the world crashes back in on him and his hands are shaking before he can even let go of the doorknob.

Peg meets him in the hall, exiting their bedroom as soon as she hears the bathroom door open, like she has been waiting for him, listening for him. She’s looking at him with eyes that are too kind and too wide and too careful, like she is realizing that whoever she has brought into her home is not the man she was expecting, like she is just now seeing that there is a stranger standing in front of her. BJ doesn't blame her for how she looks at him, can't blame her because she doesn't know how right she is: to stare at him like she doesn’t know who is he, like he will break at any moment, because he has been breaking for a long while now, longer than just from leaving Korea; maybe the cracks of who he is have been growing since the moment he set foot in that country and was referred to as Captain.

“Erin is at my mom’s,” Peg says, her voice exceedingly normal, like she must be okay with this all, like she must try to hold all the pieces of her family together as BJ falls apart right in front of her. “I didn’t know if it would be too much, seeing her today, with everything else. I know it’s probably a lot to take in. To adjust to.”

She isn’t touching him but she stands a few inches away, watching him like he might collapse. BJ doesn't even know how to respond, all thoughts of Erin crashing into focus once again, because he wants to see her, wants to hold her in his arms and never let go, wants to hear her call him daddy and watch her smile and watch her just be there, in front of him once again. But he’s terrified, pain and fear stabbing his heart at once, because his hands keep shaking and he doesn't even recognize himself in the mirror so how will his daughter see him and know that he is her dad. He can't face her, not now, not with the mounting weight of all the months he has spent away from her sinking deep inside him and hardening like a rock: heavy and dragging him down, down, down.

He has been away a lifetime, his daughter growing without him, learning to love the world without him, becoming who she is without him. How can he just jump right back in, pick up where he left off and hold her in his arms like she would even know who he was, like he isn't already a stranger to her now. How can she ever forgive him for being away, for missing so much, for coming back splintered and old and weary and not young and clean and how he should be to be her dad.

“Are you hungry? Why don’t I make you some food?” Peg waits for a reply and it feels wrong, because she never did before, not at questions like these, questions asked only in courtesy, the answer already known. But she doesn’t know the answer now, doesn’t know how he will respond. She can tell he’s different and it is making BJ want to leave, to go back to somewhere where the people look at him like he hasn’t changed, like the man before them is the same as always. But that would mean going back to Korea, or worse, to seek out someone now, people scattered around the country, from corner to corner and all around the middle and each and every one so far away and so distant he cannot even bear to think about spanning those horrible gaps between him and someone who knows who he is now, who won't look at him like his next move is a mystery.

He wants Hawkeye. The thought is so far buried in his mind, only the feeling of missing and wanting bubbles up, vague and lingering. BJ wants to be with him instead of here, with his wife, who is still watching him and waiting for an answer. It almost makes him turn around, go right back into the bathroom or maybe their bedroom and just grab his things and go, leave, maybe not to find Hawkeye, but to just get out of the house, to get out from under the thoughtful watch of Peg and the immensity of her care, care he does not deserve.

“I’m okay, Peg.” BJ lies, like his stomach isn’t empty, like he hasn’t not eaten a decent meal in so long he almost forgets the taste of home cooked food. He lies because it’s easier this way, to just tell her he doesn’t want to eat than to explain to her how he thinks he might throw up if he takes a bite of food, or worse, take a bite of food and still taste nothing, as if he will never taste again. He has gotten so good at ignoring food, at forgetting the taste, at shoving it into his mouth without care of what it is and how it tastes just so he can get something down before his day starts. He knows he doesn't need to do that anymore, that any food Peg would place before him wouldn’t be like that, but it terrifies him to think the habit might not leave him, like it has made a lasting impression on him that he will never shake. And if BJ can’t break this habit, what else will be a lasting effect of the war, lingering involuntarily in his actions, in his mind? He tries to ignore it all, but his mind closes in on the anger that is rising inside him instead.

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble,” Peg smiles now. It doesn't reach her eyes. “Or I can pick you up something. I know my cooking leaves a lot to be desired.”

“No. No, Peg, I’m okay.” The lies come easy when he’s trying to fight down his anger. It is building inside him, directed at nothing and everything. He feels small, or the house around him feels small, but regardless his chest feels tight and his breathing is pointedly calm and even, like if he takes one breath out of place then he will choke. He is angry and he doesn’t want to be. He wants to come home and be happy, to forget about the war, not be lost in the anger it is causing him, not to feel like a stranger in front of his wife, or to be missing someone so strongly he can't even touch his wife without thinking of him. “I think I’m going to unpack.”

Surprise flashes across her face, she even takes a step back before she gains enough composure to nod. “Alright, well I’m going to make you something to eat anyways. I’ll call you when it’s ready,” She touches his arm, so light it almost doesn't make contact, and then she leaves, the hallway empty now save for himself and the horrible anger that is growing out of him.

BJ goes back to his bedroom, the suitcase still untouched where he left it, and at the sight of it, his anger flares and then vanishes, like a flame extinguishing and leaving him with the ashes of ruin. He doesn’t want to touch the suitcase, thinks it would all be better if he can just shove it under the bed and forget about everything inside. But he needs to open it, to catalogue what he has brought home, to see if he can bear to look at the things that came home with him or if he will throw it all away. He sits. The floor is hard and he welcomes it, like the pain it will cause him is needed, that he should be feeling physical pain instead of just the awful ache his mind is causing him.

The suitcase is messy, disorganized. The act of packing was not as important as the actual leaving, the knowing he was going home. He packed with Hawkeye, the two of them going through all the things that had became a collective theirs: books and magazines and balls of yarn and pictures. He had given Hawkeye most of it, knowing even then that he might not be able to even look at the stuff once he came home.

He unpacks, tossing a shirt to the side, some socks, a pair of pants, more socks. The clothes are easy. He doesn't need them anymore, the army issued green making him nauseous by the sight of them again. He keeps going, setting a stack of medical magazines to the side. As he moves them, something falls out, slipping from where it has been shoved between two journals. BJ picks it up and stares, the square in his hands a picture he didn’t even know he had.

It’s him and Hawkeye, black and white and faded around the edges. They’re standing somewhere that BJ can’t place, but knows it has to be in Korea; all the memories he has of Hawkeye have been in Korea, or at least burdened by the war; but where they were doesn't matter. What he cannot stop staring at is Hawkeye’s face, the shock of seeing it again, even in a faded picture. And it has not been long since he had seen him last, the image of his face still clear and vivid in his mind, but it is almost unbearable seeing him in this picture. Hawkeye has his arm draped around BJ and the cheesy smile he always wore in photos is plastered on his face, but Hawkeye isn’t even looking at the camera. The smile is directed at him. And BJ isn’t looking at the camera either, his own smile turned to Hawkeye, like the photographer was unimportant to them, like they had even forgotten a picture was being taken, so entranced by each other that it didn’t even matter to look at the camera.

BJ feels the tears on his skin and he realizes he has started crying, his eyes still locked on the picture in his hand, their two bodies frozen in time together. He’s crying and it feels good to finally let some emotion out of him, release some of the heartbreak and pain that is rolling through him. He can’t think about why he is crying, what is making him cry, because then he will collapse, a part of him will break, unable to be repaired, and he will never be able to go back to being a husband and a father and living his life how he’s supposed to. 

So he doesn’t think about how it’s Hawkeye making him cry, how the pain inside him feels so good to feel, like he is meant to feel pain about losing something, that this ache is righteous and worthy and meant to be felt. He doesn’t think about how dry his eyes were when he saw Peg, how empty and horrible he had felt at her touch and her kindness and just being there in front of her. He doesn't think about how much he is missing Hawkeye and what that means for him, how it is unbearable to even sit here and know how far away Hawkeye is from him. He doesn’t think about anything except the picture in his hands and how he is no longer next to the best friend he has ever had and that is making him cry.

He sets down the photo, hands shaking as he places it on the floor beside him, and then he leans over and grabs the paper bag sitting on his bed. The postcards slide out easily and their colors are just as bright and friendly as in the airport. BJ chooses one at random, the image on the front not even mattering to him, the words that will be on the back all that matters now. He tosses the rest back into the bag and digs through his suitcase again, knowing there is a pen or even a pencil hidden somewhere between his things.

There’s a pen stuffed inside a sock and he starts to scribble away on the postcard, writing the address he has already memorized, the address he has seen addressed on hundreds of letters Hawkeye opened, the address of his father’s house in Maine. He knows this is where Hawkeye will be, where Hawkeye is this very moment, and the address almost feels too important for him to write, like it needs to be written by someone devoid of sin, like the house this will be sent to is a holy place, one not for him. 

But he gets down all the words and moves over to the other half of the postcard, space so wide and blank anything could be written there. BJ already knows what he is going to write, the words finally coming easy to him now. He tells Hawkeye how he hasn’t even been home a day and he couldn’t bear it, that not having him at his side is something he didn’t expect to make him feel this bad, this lost, like he is missing a limb, or his lungs, or his—

He almost writes his heart, saying that without Hawkeye it feels like his heart is empty, but he stops himself because what does that mean? He can't begin to think about it, so he moves on and tells him that he already misses him more than he has ever missed someone, and the words feel strange, powerful, like he shouldn’t be writing them down. But he needs to, and he needs to give this to Hawkeye, to let him know just how important he is to him, just how much he is missing him.

He stops, his words reaching the bottom of the postcard, and he signs it, puts his name at the bottom, telling Hawkeye that this is him reaching out, not losing contact, that he is here once again. But he doesn’t put him name, not exactly; he puts “Beej”, the nickname only Hawkeye has ever called him, called so often it almost made BJ forget he could be called anything else. He reads through what he wrote, scared he wrote something he shouldn't have, whatever that might be, but all the words are okay. They are messy and painful and tell of a longing that BJ is scared to think too long about, but they are true, so utterly true it terrifies him that he can only write the truth to Hawkeye, can only give him what he really feels, no matter how vulnerable it makes him. He gives him the truth because to lie feels like he might die, as if he doesn't give someone the truth right now, his heart might stop and his body will turn cold and stiff and nothing more will come.

BJ stands, grabbing the photo as he pushes himself off the floor, tucking it into his pocket, careful not to ruin the image. He sets the postcard on his dresser with the thought that he will mail it tomorrow, or even tonight, take a walk to the nearest collection box and drop it in. And then, as if on a cue, Peg is in the doorway again, an apron on and a towel in her hands.

“I made steak,” Peg talks like everything is still normal, like he hasn’t said barely ten words to her since he came back, like he isn’t standing there with a look on his face that shouldn’t belong there, like he isn’t a stranger to her now. She doesn’t even act uncomfortable, just going about her duties like any wife would, and BJ wants to kiss her for it, thinks he should kiss her, that he is meant to kiss her. She is still so rightfully devoted to him and their family, but BJ doesn’t have the heart to say that maybe he isn’t anymore. Maybe his devotion has gotten lost, or broken, or stolen by another. He should be going right back to being the husband of her dreams, working a successful job and supporting his family and loving his wife and child, but there is nothing in him anymore that is pushing him to do that, driving him forward.

He has learned so much in Korea, gone through changes and began to understand things about himself that he never thought he would. Despite all that he was there for and all he had to do, he had felt free there, free in a way he had never felt before, like he could breath and smile and his heart was working correctly. Those times with Hawkeye and the others, when the war wasn’t barging in on them, when they could just sit and drink together and actually laugh like they hadn’t just spent ten hours looking at the blood of children. He had felt free, so unburdened by something he hadn’t even known was a burden.

But now he’s back home and that weight is resting on him again, the expectation of what he should be doing, of how he should act, of how his life must go. He feels it, so heavy on his chest, and he thinks it might break him, that this will be the final piece that will shatter him completely. He looks at his wife, with her devotion and love she is still trying to give to him, and he feels nothing except the weight of what he should be doing but there is none of the push to execute, to go back in his role as the faithful husband.

BJ can’t say any of that to Peg, to tell her that something might have changed inside him and he can't just pick back up where he left off. He can’t say anything of it, because it would mean breaking his life apart; because if he isn’t a husband, then what is he? What does his life look like if he isn’t married to Peg and living here in this house in California? So he nods his head and smiles; that is what is expected for him to do, after all. “Thank you, Peg,” He says the words but the emotion he puts behind them isn’t real, and instead of reaching out and touching her, he puts his hands in his pockets and feels the photo sitting there and lets himself relax as he touches that instead of his wife.

Peg twists the towel in her hands and then gestures to follow her to the kitchen. He does, following right along behind her like he’s supposed to because right now he can’t decide what’s the next thing to do, so it’s easier to just go along with what should happen. It’s safer this way, comfortable, and maybe he’ll be able to ignore the longing welling up inside him and the empty motivation that fills him. Maybe if he just goes along, then it will all get easier, and he’ll remember his motivation and devotion and maybe he’ll even forget about the photo of Hawkeye and himself that his hand is still wrapped around and it will all be better.

It’s a laughable thought, but he swallows the laugh, hoping in this suffocation, he will allow this to come true.

***

Time passes. He eats, barely noticing the flavor, barely seeing the food in front of him. Time passes and the night goes on. He gets a garbage bag and piles every green piece of clothing inside it. He picks up the wet pile of clothes from the bathroom and tosses it in, shoes and all, the simple act of ridding himself of these clothes allowing him to breathe easier, to take a breath and feel the air enter his lungs without a sob hanging on to them. Time passes. Everything is put away, suitcase placed in the closet in the hall, taken by Peg out of sight but not out of mind. Time passes. BJ sits on his bed with the photo in his hands. He puts it away when he hears Peg coming down the hall, sliding it under his pillow as he lays down on the bed. Time passes. Peg climbs into the other side of the bed and turns off the light. Time passes. BJ falls asleep.

Something like bullets sound around him, the noise echoing on to infinity: cavernous and wide and all falling into his ears. It’s deafening, and through it all there are screams, coming in every direction, and blood on every body part. He goes through the motions, bending over body after body, cataloging the wounds, moving on to the next faceless boy and puddle of blood. It goes on, the line of bodies never stopping, the blood never ceasing, the sound of bullets and screams crashing around him, like a tick of the clock, counting seconds into infinity, seconds that will never become minutes and will always just indicate that another moment has passed but nothing has changed. It all goes on and on and on until he opens his eyes and hears his ragged breathing instead of bullets and Peg speaking his name instead of screams.

Peg leans over him, the room still dark, her face so close to his it fills his entire vision. He’s cold, shaking, each breath an effort to the greatest degree. The words Peg is saying to him inaudible, lost under the sound of his heart in his head.

He sits up, Peg’s hand going to his back as he starts, helping him forward, and then her hand is off his back and she leans across the bed to turn on the lamp, the light making everything a little more reasonable. BJ wants to say something, but he is stuck staring at his hands and numbly realizing there isn’t any blood on them, that he is clean and he isn’t waking up from this nightmare on a bed that feels like wood and a tent around him instead of four solid walls. He’s aware of Peg’s hand rubbing circles against his back, her words keep coming, trying to give him any comfort when even she is scared, her voice small and nervous and BJ is doing nothing to stop the fear from coming over her too.

And then he blinks and shakes his head, something slotting back into place and he feels okay again, like he hasn’t just woken from a nightmare. He knows nightmares, has gotten them for months now, and maybe in Korea he could manage better, with the hours of sleep he was able to get coming so few and far between his exhaustion winning out against any nightmares his mind could supply. And in Korea if he woke up, he could just get up, go to post-op to check on the patients or find something useful to do rather than just lay in bed and hope for sleep he knew he wouldn’t get. Or Hawkeye would have already been up, sitting in his own bed, knitting in the dark, or reading from the little light that filtered in through the tent walls. And on those nights, he would move out of his bed and over to the chair that sat beside Hawkeye’s bunk and they wouldn’t talk about why they were both awake. They would just sit there in the early hours of the morning before the sun rises when the camp is silent, like no other person for thousands of miles is awake with them.

But he doesn't know how to handle a nightmare now, a nightmare that wakes him up next to his wife. He can’t just get up and walk over to post-op, to find some way to fill his time. And there’s isn’t Hawkeye. He can’t look to his side and see the man and feel something like blossoming peace to just be near him. There’s nothing like that now, and even Peg’s hand on his back and all the comforting words she is trying to give him aren’t helping, aren’t giving him the slightest peace. All it is doing is making Peg lose sleep, so BJ runs a hand over his face, scrubbing at his eyes, getting any lingering feeling of sleep out of them, and he looks over at Peg.

“I’m going to be downstairs.” BJ says as quietly as he can, like he might wake up the world with this single sentence.

“I’ll come with you,” Peg offers, even begins to slide out of bed, but BJ stops her, placing a hand on the blanket between them.

“Go back to sleep, Peg. I’ll be okay,” He doesn’t know if she thinks he’s lying, but he doesn't know either, so it seems fair. “I’m just going to read for a while. It’s alright, I promise.”

He gets up, pulling back the covers and letting his feet hit the floor, and then he stands and places the covers back, positioning them like he was never there. Peg watches him like she isn’t sure if she should be stopping him, insisting he comes back to bed and try to fall asleep again, or maybe she should be following him, hanging on to him and hoping he doesn’t fall apart. But she does nothing, just lets him leave the room, and before BJ is down the stairs, he hears the lamp click off and the shuffle of blankets as Peg lays back to rest.

The silence of his house is deafening. He tries to walk quietly, placing each foot down gently, like if he disturbs this quiet then whatever sense of calm that has fallen over him will lift and panic will settle in again. He goes to the living room, clicking on the lamp as he walks past and grabs a book off the bookshelf, any book, anything to just hold in his hands as he sits in the stillness of night.

Somehow, his mind is quiet, letting him just sit there and stare at the carpet in his living room. It’s new; he has never seen it before and Peg hadn’t even told him that they had gotten new carpet, and he thinks about all else that he must have missed that Peg didn’t tell him about. Conversations with neighbors, moments with Erin, dreams Peg had, meals she cooked, all the times she had looked at the moon. There must be thousands, millions, of moments he has no idea about, times that passed that he wasn’t there for, that he will never be there for. But he can’t blame Peg for not telling him, for not detailing every single moment of her life while he was gone. He didn’t tell her everything, all the moments he had experienced in Korea. Most were bad, bloody, of surgery and wounds and caring for sick kid after sick kid, a monotonous horror he did not want to burden her with, would not dare describe what he saw to anyone. But he didn’t tell her about all the moments in between. He wrote some to her, ones he thought she ought to know, moments that could show her that he was doing alright over there, coping with the atrocity around him, but most passed unmentioned, remaining in his memory but not on paper. 

So maybe they don’t know all that has passed between them while he was gone, the time when they were separated always going to stay an unknown, but BJ thinks he can live with that. Knowing that there are times between them that are not secrets but simply unknown parts of their lives, it settles something in him, as if permission has been given for secrecy, acknowledgment of the unknowable.

He stops staring at the carpet, lifting his head so he’s looking at the shadows in the corner of the room. He knows he will sit here until the sun comes up, until the night has loosened it’s heavy hold over the world and light can only again come in. The hours in between do not scare him like he thinks they should, that the few hours from now until sunrise should be these terrifying monsters that hang over him, threatening to eat him, but there is no fear in that stillness, in the quiet of his house and the dark of night. He will wait through it, eyes open, mind ready, trying to shake the feeling that he doesn’t belong here, that to be in this house, to sleep in his bed, to stay here when he has changed so much is something like a sin. He doesn’t feel at home, the thought itching at him as he sits in the chair he had sat in so often, but his body feels strange in the seat, as if even the fabric of the chair has forgotten who he was.

And if during these hours, as the night slowly lifts, his thoughts turn to Hawkeye, he lets them, allowing him one ounce of familiarity in his foreign bones, in this forgien house. BJ lets himself think about all the nights spent awake at Hawkeye’s side, all the sleepless nights sitting in the Swamp doing nothing but just sitting there, as if to make noise would wake the whole camp. And he lets himself think about the Hawkeye that is three hours ahead of him, how the sun is probably creeping slowly above the horizon for him now, the night no longer an obstacle, but the new day is. He thinks about how he is probably awake, just the same as him, sitting and trying to grapple with being home, with what that means for himself, for them. And BJ lets himself think that Hawkeye is thinking of him, too, that they are two people thousands of miles apart, thinking of each other through the night. He smiles at the thought, letting himself find comfort in that fantasy.

Morning does come, slowly and efficiently, just as it does every morning. As the sunrise begins, BJ makes coffee, moving around his kitchen in the ease of muscle memory. The cabinet where the mugs are is the same, the drawer with the spoons, the space in the fridge for the milk, all the same. Like he has never left. He sits on the steps to the front porch with his coffee to watch the rest of the sunrise. The sky turns an orange, bright and burning and beautiful across the entire sky for a few minutes, and then blue fades in and that beauty is gone.

He’s still out on the steps when Peg finds him, approaching him cautiously, like he’s a frightened animal that will bolt at any sudden movement. She doesn’t sit next to him, choosing the step behind him, sitting in silence as the sun continues to rise. Birds are singing and the grass is wet with dew, and BJ wishes he could cry at the sight, that he could find tears in his eyes as he experiences his first morning home from Korea. 

This should be monumental, to witness a morning of peace, home, with no fighting just miles away and no fear his hands will soon be bloody. But there are no tears in him, just the heavy weight of being home settling in his chest once again and some imitation of warmth brought on by the coffee hanging over his heart. He doesn’t feel okay, but he has to live with whatever this is, so he turns his head to look behind him, to be the one to speak first. Peg deserves for him to try, for him to attempt to find some way to be normal, to act like a husband again. He can do it today, but he doesn’t know how long he will be able to keep it up, find the motivation to continue.

“Hi,” BJ says and finds it in him to smile. He can see her exhale, shoulders slumping and a smile coming over her face. It reaches her eyes this time, like she is finally seeing the man in front of her and realizing that this is still the person she knows, that he has not been lost completely.

“Did you stay up all night?” She moves down a step, sitting next to him now. She stretches her legs out in front of her and pulls her robe tighter across her chest. BJ watches, remembering all the times he has watched her do this before, to stretch in the early morning as she smiles at him. For a second, he feels something like love fill his throat, but by the time he tries to speak, he knows it’s just nostalgia lining his memories.

“Yeah,” He answers as simply as he can, not even trying to lie to her. Peg leans against his shoulder for a second before pulling away, sitting straight again.

“You’re going to be tired today,”

“I got a few hours in, I’ll be okay,” He says and looks down at the empty mug in his hands. At the bottom, a thin layer of coffee sits, dark and ugly against the white of the cup. “I’m used to it.”

There’s silence for a moment, even the birds have stopped singing. Then Peg sighs, the breath of air leaving her mouth soft and heavy. “I’m sorry—”

BJ cuts her off with the shake of his head. He doesn’t think he can stand it if Peg thinks she has something to apologize for, or that she needs to sooth his soul by saying these words. There are not enough apologizes in the world to help him now, and one coming from her mouth does nothing but excruciate the apologizes he will never receive, the words just a taunting laugh from the government who sent him there. “Don’t apologize. Please.”

She places a hand on his shoulder and it’s enough. He takes it, leaning into the touch, allowing her to comfort him in this small way. “Let’s go inside.” Peg says, moving her hand off his shoulder, fingers trailing behind.

“I think I’ll make you breakfast,” BJ stands and reaches his hand down to Peg, pushing past whatever weight is still pressing down on him. The disbelief on her face as she looks up at him makes him laugh, the sound coming out fast and strong and he had almost forgotten what his laugh sounded like. “Don’t look at me like that. My cooking might have improved.”

“Sure,” Peg says, amusement filling the single word, and takes his hand, hoisting herself to her feet. She lets go of his hand quickly and starts to walk back inside, leaving a distance between them, both lingering on the edges of the other, close but not touching, something keeping them apart. She throws her head back to him with a small smile. “If you don’t burn the house down, I’ll consider it an accomplishment.”

He cooks her breakfast, his sentiment all aligned with how it should be: dote on his wife, smile at her as he whisks eggs, tell her a joke to make her laugh. It’s fine, it’s all fine, BJ can manage this, this feeling of performing his role, his emotions muted and dull underneath his actions. He can deal with this, with pretending and hiding behind all that he is meant to be. But as he watches the omelet cook on the stove, Peg momentarily out of the kitchen, he remembers that Hawkeye taught him this recipe, described to him in perfect detail how to prepare an omelet just how he likes it. It sends his mind spiraling, feelings suddenly in loud, vivid colors, screaming at him, the noise deafening in the silence of the kitchen. BJ doesn't know what to do, how to grapple with knowing that all he is doing is playing out a fantasy that he can’t even name.

BJ drops the spatula on the counter and turns off the stove, abandoning the omelet in the pan as he leaves the kitchen, walking up the stairs to his bedroom quickly, almost running, purposefully keeping himself back from running. Peg’s there, sitting on the edge of their bed and pulling on her socks. She doesn’t even look up when he enters, and BJ thinks he might throw up if she had, or if he had to explain himself, tell her why he has a frantic look in his eyes and he is grabbing his robe with hands just about to start shaking. He grabs the postcard off his dresser and leaves, the room, the house, only pausing for a moment to pull on a pair of shoes before the house is behind him and he’s outside again, walking down the street to where the closest collection box is three blocks away. Something is pushing him forward, a motivation he has not felt since he came home, a need to do this right now, drop everything and mail this postcard like he will die if he doesn’t, like this postcard is his lifeline and he must send it, deliver it, have Hawkeye read it or he will drown.

The collection box is cold, the metal gleaming in the early morning light, and BJ stares at it for a moment, five feet away, as if he gets any closer he’ll combust. And he’s scared, the dread in his mind sending waves of unease through his whole body, but it’s not fear to send the postcard, to contact Hawkeye again despite being home for only a day. There is no fear in that, in talking to Hawkeye, in telling him he misses him, in telling him that he will not be getting rid of him this easily, that a few miles and time zones separating them will not stop whatever has formed between them. The fear is in what he faces back at home, at what he has to do when he turns around and walks back to his house, to Peg, to that half cooked omelet he left on the stove. The carefully thought out plan of his life does not include sending a postcard across the country to the only person that has made him cry since he came home. There is no room for this desire to see Hawkeye again, no place for Hawkeye to occupy in his life. He just doesn’t fit, simple as that.

Nothing makes sense, standing here, dread and hope mixing like poison inside him, rotgut, bourbon, whiskey, gin, burning his stomach, his throat, his soul. He feels as if he can’t go home if he sends this postcard, but he doesn’t know what that means, why this fear and blackness is terrorizing him when every part of him is pushing himself forward, to mail the postcard, to just have Hawkeye back in his life.

Dropping it in the slot is as easy as breathing. The sound of the postcard hitting the bottom on the box is like the beat of his heart. BJ doesn’t know what he’s doing, what this one action is going to cascade into; he feels like his life might fall apart from one postcard, but somewhere in him, BJ can’t find the effort to care. 

He feels so numb to all of this, to thinking his life is over, because isn’t it already? Didn’t his life end when he got his draft notice? Didn’t his life end when he said goodbye to Peg and left her here? Didn’t his life end when he met Hawkeye and realized that if he stuck with him, stayed by the side of this man who seemed to hate it there as much as he did, then he might be alright? Didn’t his life end when he had to cut that rope and sentence a man to die? Didn’t his life end when he spent a sleepless night spelling out ‘goodbye’ in rocks? Didn’t his life end when Hawkeye pulled away from that last hug and got into that chopper? Didn’t his life end when he saw Peg and didn’t even cry? It is like he has died a thousand times before, this frame of flesh mangled and broken by what he has seen, by what he has done, and this one small action, to mail a postcard, is just another end to his life.

He turns away from the collection box and takes a breath, just to make sure he still can, and he goes back to his house, because that is all that he can do. All those other times that his life has felt like it ended, all the times that he has died, he continued on because he had to, could not stop and wallow in his fear or dread or hatred. He had to go on living despite the death in his heart, and this is the same.

Peg meets him at the door, opening it for him, letting him pass without a word. She doesn’t ask where he had gone, why he had left without a word, and BJ almost wants her to, to break the tension between them with a well placed question he can’t hide from. But she doesn’t; she keeps her mouth shut and averts her eyes when he looks at her and brings him to the kitchen to continue cooking that omelet he had left on the stove. And he picks right up: turns on the stove and falls back into the role he has to play, like the past ten minutes were nothing more than an intermission, something to forget, to just get over, not actually a part of their life.

BJ watches the omelet cook and he can almost let himself imagine turning around and Hawkeye being there instead of Peg. He keeps that thought to himself and doesn't let the disappointment show when Peg is still the one that meets his eyes and eats the omelet.


End file.
